


Into your open arms

by mochiinvasion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Genswap, gender swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:03:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mochiinvasion/pseuds/mochiinvasion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She always returns in the end, and Joan is always waiting for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into your open arms

**Author's Note:**

> Short fic for Dem - good friend, best moirail <3 I know you’re not so into F/F but I have a reputation to uphold :B

Sometimes, she disappears.

Joan was worried at first, of course, and first return brought quickened breath, wide eyes and a skittering voice (and not in the good way) as they tried to mute their 3AM conversation – Joan asking for some information, a _message_ at least; Shirley begging safety and that she couldn’t risk them coming back to Joan. Joan laughed and pointed out that their relationship was in practically all the newspapers anyway, magazines speculating on its nature and commenting on its meaning and reporters constantly questioning the who’s and what’s and why’s.

She walked away then, shaking her head, and returned to her cold, empty bed, locking the door behind her. Shirley may have struggled with understanding others sometimes, but she knew then that she had fucked up, and spent the next several days trying to make it up, until finally Joan swatted her away with a “forgiven” and a mumble that sounded like “message”. 

The next time, Shirley was sure to let her know. “Going out,” she said one morning, “back in a few days if we’re lucky,” and Joan spent the next three days praying to a god she didn’t know if she believed in.

This time, Shirley is unlucky, and though she is alive and barely bleeding she is late, and she feels worry for Joan sit in the bottom of her stomach like a rock. It’s stormy as fuck outside, and the padded interior of the taxi feels like an insulated pod, hiding her away from the raging elements out in the real world. The driver knows her by now and he doesn’t say a word except to apologise for slowing for the rain. Without her asking, he pulls over two streets away and pretends to help her get her bag out of the back, pulling away as soon as she stands back on the kerb. 

(In actuality, her bag is currently lost and torn somewhere in the mud and cold, after she dropped it in the chase and returned back victorious and only a little injured.)  
She allows herself to stand on the kerb for a second, feeling the rain pour down her face and onto her neck, waiting as the wind riffles through her coat until the cold sets in in her bones and she pulls the garment closer around her and begins to walk. These final few steps until she gets home have always been her favourite part of the journey, when the anticipation of warmth and recognition bubbles up in her chest and warms her from the inside. Even as she digs in her pockets for her keys, she can imagine the scene inside the flat, Joan lying spread across her bed as if to catch as much of her as possible when she’s gone, Joan huddled up inside her own bed, wrapping blankets around herself as if it were Shirley’s embrace, Joan asleep on the couch, tea on the table, waiting, always waiting, for her to return.

One muted apology to Mrs Hudson later, and she’s pushing the door open, walking slowly into the warm room. The TV is blaring in the corner, volume turned down low but screen still bright, washed out images flickering across the screen. Joan is asleep on her chair, face turned down as if in a frown even in her sleep, skin pale with bags under her eyes and, as expected, wrapped in several blankets with a mug of tea on the table next to her. She sighs in her sleep, and Shirley takes her damp coat off, emptying her pockets onto the low table and leaving her shoes scattered in front of the door before she sits down in front of Joan and tries to wake her.

She refuses at first, turning her head to the side and wriggling further back into the chair, and it’s only when Shirley leans down to whisper her name in her ear, breath tickling across her skin, that she wakes up with a jump. 

In quick order she starts back, stares at Shirley for a second, lets out a quick breath that sounds almost like a laugh of relief and leans up to kiss her. Shirley kisses her back quickly then stands up, walking around the room and returning home, feeling each piece of furniture like another anchor keeping her grounded and describing her journey to Joan in muted tones. Joan knows her well enough not to interrupt, and the gasp she lets out is completely real – when Shirley turns around and catches a glimpse of her face she sees worry mix in with the relief and leans down to kiss and reassure her, reacquainting herself with Joan’s soft skin and slightly chapped lips. 

Joan watches her with a sort of sleepy muteness, and when her eyes flutter closed as Shirley turns off the lights in the kitchen she can’t help but walk back over and slip her hands under her back and in the crook of her knees, making to lift her up and only backing off when she is swatted away. Instead, Joan allows herself to be pulled up by the hand, linking their fingers tightly and following Shirley into her bedroom, collapsing onto the bed and pulling Shirley down with her.

She looks up at Shirley for a second and then starts to kiss her again, using one arm to prop herself and wrapping the other around her waist, not trying to start anything, just reassuring herself that she’s there and real. Shirley trails one hand down her torso, fitting it into the grooves of Joan’s waist and pulling away to press a kiss to her neck and sit back up, indicating her clothes ruefully. Joan sits up with a soft sigh as well, and begins to change herself, disappearing into the bathroom for a second and returning to stand in the doorway and watch as Shirley stalks around the room putting clothes away and pulling others out, destroying Joan’s quiet neatness for her own organised chaos.

Eventually she finishes and joins Joan, washing and brushing between kisses and pushing her against the sink with a quiet smile on her face, relishing in the realness of it all, the way that Joan feels just right inside her arms and the expression of relief and happiness on her face. 

“We’re such a cliché,” she whispers and pulls her back into their bedroom, Joan flopping down and wriggling into place as Shirley closes the blinds and switches off the lights, crawling in with her and slotting into place. Normally once in bed Joan is out like a light, but now she lies facing her, feather light touches reacquainting herself with Shirley’s body. “I missed you,” she murmurs and Shirley laughs softly, “I couldn’t tell,” and this time when Joan reaches up to kiss her again she doesn’t pull away, instead falling into the motions that come as naturally and as welcome as breathing. 

Afterwards, when they are catching their breath and Shirley is pressing lazy kisses to the side of Joan’s neck and up to the corner of her mouth, Joan smiles down at her and breathes out “I love you,” with the sigh that precedes sleep, and when her eyes fall shut Shirley presses a final kiss to her lips and then wraps herself tight around her, feeling, for the first time in too long, at ease.

**Author's Note:**

> Set an indeterminate time after Reichenbach, when Shirley has returned from the grave - I'd imagine Joan would be fairly worried the first time Shirley disappears suddenly for a few days. Why does she do it? Nobody knows.  
> Also, I know I change fem!Sherlock's name in every damn fic I write. Hashtag YOLO.  
> (This was written really quickly and there are probably some mistakes - feel free to point them out and/or otherwise comment).


End file.
